


that old devil moon

by AllOfThisMatter



Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: Domestic Fluff, F/M, Moving In Together, No Plot/Plotless
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-05
Updated: 2015-05-05
Packaged: 2018-03-29 03:28:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,079
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3880498
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AllOfThisMatter/pseuds/AllOfThisMatter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Some general fluffy Clairedevil.  No painful feels.  He asks her to move in, since she pretty much already lives there.</p>
            </blockquote>





	that old devil moon

**Author's Note:**

> _I look at you and suddenly_   
>  _Something in your eyes I see_   
>  _Soon begins bewitching me_
> 
>  
> 
> _It's that Old Devil moon_  
>  _That you stole from the skies_  
>  _It's that Old Devil Moon in your eyes_
> 
>  
> 
> _You and your glance_  
>  _Make this romance_  
>  _Too hot to handle_
> 
>  
> 
> _Stars in the night_  
>  _Blazing their light_  
>  _Can't hold a candle_
> 
>  
> 
> _To your razzle-dazzle_  
>  _You've got me flyin' high and wide_  
>  _On a magic carpet ride_  
>  _Full of butterflies inside_
> 
>  
> 
> _Wanna cry, wanna croon_  
>  _Wanna laugh like a loon_  
>  _It's that Old Devil Moon in your eyes_
> 
>  
> 
> _Just when I think, I'm_  
>  _Free as a dove_  
>  _Old Devil Moon_  
>  _Deep in your eyes_  
>  _Blinds me with love_
> 
>  
> 
> _To your razzle-dazzle_  
>  _You've got me flyin' high and wide_  
>  _On a magic carpet ride_  
>  _Full of butterflies inside_
> 
>  
> 
> _Wanna cry, wanna croon_  
>  _Wanna laugh like a loon_  
>  _It's that Old Devil Moon in your eyes_
> 
>  
> 
>  _Just when I think, I'm_  
>  _Free as a dove_  
>  _Old Devil Moon_  
>  _Deep in your eyes_  
>  _Blinds me with love_  
>  _Oh, blind me with love_  
>  \--Frank Sinatra, Old Devil Moon

It’s the vase of flowers on the counter that makes him take notice. He sets down his unneeded cane and briefcase and brushes his fingers along the delicate petals, the downy leaves. _Freesias,_ he thinks, and smiles to himself as he pushes the arrangement back towards the center of the counter. The night she pulled him out of that dumpster, she was wearing this perfume, some blend of clean linens and sunlight and… freesias.

He loosens his tie as he leans towards the fridge, senses honing in on the little scraps of paper held in place by magnets. His fingers glide around the edges, over ink and photo paper. This one’s a set of photo booth images, these are concert tickets, arts festival tickets, ferry tickets. That’s a hand made card from a client’s daughter, thanking him for helping her father and Claire for fixing up his “boo-boos.” Here’s a magnet that says, “I met the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen and all I got was this stupid magnet.” He can’t stop himself from laughing at that, remembering the quirky street vendor she’d haggled over it with, scarcely able to contain her giggling. Lastly, he finds a watercolor painting that she’d made a few weeks ago. He likes the feeling of it under his fingers, the slight differences in texture of the different colors. She’d asked him to sit still for this. It’s a portrait of him, done solely in shades of red and black, and signed with a beautifully messy “CT” in the bottom left hand corner. What he hadn’t noticed previously was the writing, in thick black ink, along the side: “Heaven help me, I’m in love with the devil.”

He smiles again as he turns away, humming an old song while he lays his suit jacket over the back of the couch on top of her grandmother’s quilt. Matt notices everything, typically. What he hadn’t noticed was how seamlessly she had stitched herself into his patchworked life. She’s bright colors and soft threads on his frayed edges, and she keeps him warm when long nights have leeched everything gentle from his battered bones. He’s still and quiet as he breathes in the flowers, the new laundry detergent she’d washed their sheets with, her shampoo and conditioner on his bathrobe, her perfume on the bathroom counter next his cologne, the lingering smell of the pancakes she’d made that morning.

It’s been 11 months, 1 week and 2 days since she brought him into her apartment for the first time. 9 months and 3 weeks since she was taken by the Russians and since he told her his name. 9 months and 2 weeks and 6 days since their first kiss. 8 months and 3 days since she left Hell’s Kitchen, 7 months and 2 weeks and 4 days since she came back. 7 months exactly since their first real date. He can barely remember his life before her, but he knows that he was unbelievably alone and angry, all raging flames and boiling blood. When he’s with her, it fades away and he feels something like peace, like rest. He knows it’s selfish of him to be with her like this, when one misstep could bring a coldblooded killer right to this apartment. And he’s tried, tried to convince her to leave him, leave Hell’s Kitchen for somewhere kinder, but she stays. God knows why, but she stays, in spite of the danger, in spite of the ghosts that won’t stop haunting him, and he loves her, in spite of every odd against them.

She’s an angel with tattered wings, with dark corners of her own, but there’s a light in her that’s refused to go out and that’s what keeps drawing him home on the nights he feels the most lost. His closet is filled with her clothes, his shelves have collected her books and movies and CDs, his windowsills are lined with her plants, her artwork hangs on his walls, and his body is covered with artful scars that she made out of gaping wounds. Beauty made out of brokenness. They feel like her signature all over his limbs and he feels like he belongs to her like he hasn’t belonged to anyone since he was left in an orphanage. 

_“It’s that old devil moon, that you stole from the sky, it’s that old devil moon in your eyes…”_

He can hear her singing, swinging her hips as she dances towards their door, and he smiles again, unable to stop himself if he wanted to. The click of her key in the lock is one of his favorite sounds in the world, followed closely by the sound of her dropping her bag and keys on the table, the sound of her voice saying she’s home. In another heartbeat she’s in his lap, fingers running over his face and into his hair.

“Win any cases today?” she breathes against his neck as his arms curl around her waist.

“Mrs. Copelli’s. Save any lives today?” he answers.

“A little girl, chased a puppy into the street. She’ll get to go home in a few days.”

“Mm, you’re my hero, Temple.”

“Just like you’re mine, Murdock.”

She presses a kiss to his mouth, her tongue tracing the most recent split in his lower lip, and he sighs contentedly before she pulls away and stands.

“I have the graveyard shift tonight, so don’t go out unless it’s before or after,” she calls from the kitchen as she’s pouring them some wine.

“Move in with me,” he says as he takes a glass.

“Haven’t I already?” she chuckles as she curls against him, sipping at the heady Merlot.

“Yeah, pretty much. Just seems like you might as well stop paying for an apartment you don’t live in. When was the last time you were there anyway?”

“Oh, probably two weeks ago. You know what this means, though, don’t you?”

“What’s that?” he questions, one hand drawing circles on her hip while the other swirls his wine in the glass.

“We have to get some shades or curtains or something for these windows. I swear that damn billboard manages to shine right under the bedroom door and into my face.”

He laughs and takes her glass, setting both his and hers on the table before pulling her back into his lap, kissing and touching and tasting. He’s more drunk on her than any alcohol could ever make him.

“You got it, roomie.”


End file.
